


I Don't Want to Die Slowly

by McVetty



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Death, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McVetty/pseuds/McVetty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint can feel the poison working through his body. He wonders when it happened, but the mission is more important. Keeping Natasha safe is more important.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Want to Die Slowly

**Author's Note:**

> Was listening to Speed Me Towards Death by Rob Dougan while writing this, and originally I wrote it because of a bit of fanart I saw on Tumblr. Which oddly had nothing to do with this... Please enjoy.

The poison is taking effect.

Clint's aim wavers. His arrows fail to hit their mark, slipping a hairs breadth in the wrong direction. Always left, always slightly lower. When he moves from one nest to the next, his feet collide into each other, and he stumbles. Sweat beads on his brow, dripping into his eyes, forcing him to wipe it away. As he tucks into the small window at the base of the destroyed building, he falls heavily to his knees. For a moment too long, he doesn't move, breath leaving pale lips in faint wisps. At last, he pulls his failing body to its feet, holding the wall for support, leaning against the frame of the window and pulling the string to his ear.

His target flinches as the arrow strikes.

He's moving again before anyone has time to track him. Constantly moving. Natasha is on the ground, he needs to keep their eyes focusing on the skies. He needs to keep moving, keep Natasha safe. It is all that matters. The success of the mission counts on Natasha.

Clint keeps moving.

Rough brick scrapes against his cheek as he stumbles into the wall. Gritting his teeth, he presses on. The bow falls from his unwilling fingers, clattering to the linoleum. Head spinning, he reaches down for the weapon, snagging it with his fingertips and lifting it. Another needlessly long moment passes as he leans against the wall, chest heaving, eyes shut, fingers clenching tight around his bow.

The ringing starts when he's slumping down the wall, bow loosening in his hand, eyelids drooping, a crushing weight on his chest. The ringing starts far off, like an alarm, growing louder in his left ear, until he cant hear his own breathing. The left side of his world is a tilting, ringing house of mirrors. He fights to his feet, gripping his bow until his knuckles turn white. Boots scraping against the floor, he lurches forward, trying desperately to get to his next check.

Radio communication is down, it will be until Natasha gets the hostages out alive. They can't risk it.

Clint grits his teeth so hard he feels like he might bite through his jaw. Pain spikes out from his mouth to his ears, intensifying the ringing. Still, he presses on, the radio dead in his ear, nothing but the pounding of his heart, the wheeze of his lungs, and the cold ringing in his left ear.

_When did it happen?_

The question isn't important now, he knows. It is still there, and despite himself, he finds his mind wandering to it instead of taking the shot presenting itself to him. Reflexively he pulls the string back, letting it fly, but his heart isn't in it, his ear is taking his mind off the job, the question is nagging in his mind.

_When..... when..... when... when … when when when when when......_

The arrow misses completely, embedding in the ground beside the man's right foot. Clint's left.

 _Left_.

He nocks another arrow, shaking his head violently, the ringing spinning all around his head. The target looks up, nearly where Clint is positioning himself, and the master archer takes the shot. The arrow slides like a butter knife into the man's calf, sending him to the ground. Clint verifies the drop before moving again, hand on the wall for support. In the hall, he leans his entire body against the wall as he takes shuddering, hesitant steps.

When he can walk no more, he slumps to his knees, right side pressing against the cool stone wall, bow laying alone behind him, head bowing, chin touching his chest. His breathing shallows, muscles slacking, sliding down the wall until his body is twisting unnaturally, but he doesn't move.

Natasha finds him first.

Her hands are in his hair, on his face, over his body, searching as she calls his name far and distant. She pulls him into her lap, stronger than she looks and far more gentle. She says something about red, ledgers, Loki, things that Clint thinks he remembers, but they seem fragments of a bigger dream, hiding at the corners of his memories. His eyes open on her red hair, the familiar sight bringing a smile to his pale lips. Her mouth is moving rapidly, but he can barely hear her. Shaking his head, he blinks as if to dispel the quiet over him.

“...is on his way,” Natasha pleads, her thumb pressing circles into his cheek.

He stops moving his head, his right ear facing Natasha, his left somewhere far and distant and cold and _quiet_.

“Why didn't you say something?” she berates, her thumb pressing harder into his cheek.

He flinches, and the pressure of her thumb is suddenly gone, replaced by a gentle caress and a quiet concern. “The mission...” he croaks, and his voice is cracking on every end of the verbal spectrum. He decides then not to speak again, as a headache slams into his temples and takes over his brain.

“We were successful, even if you were out of action,” Natasha answers softly, her hand working through his hair. “The UN hostages are in SHIELD's hands.”

“Dende?” Clint asks in a whisper, still agitating the headache.

Natasha hesitates. Clint doesn't need to hear her say it to know what happened, that the war criminal escaped. There is a quiet in the hall, and Clint fights against the sleep that is threatening to take him.

“Your life isn't worth a mission like this,” Natasha says sadly, looking down at him.

Clint's head rolls in her lap, eyes closing.

“I'm so sorry, Clint.”

He fights to stay awake, tries to see Natasha's face before he slips into unconsciousness.

“I'm so sorry,” she repeats, bending over him to plant a kiss on his lips.

_Left._

“I had no choice.”

_Before the mission._

“I do love you.”

_Natasha's voice in his left ear._

“Please forgive me.”


End file.
